about today
by paper streets
Summary: The last drops of coffee are cold. / Collection of drabbles written for the writethong prompt exchange on tumblr. WanRaava, high school metal band au.


**jottings: **this au is everything.

**dedication:** NYE. MY FOREVER GIRL-for coming up with the metalband au in the first place, and for just being amazing in general. also, ribbon-couture on tumblr for the lovely prompts.

**disclaimed. **

(title is from the national. it's also the song wan plays in #9.)

* * *

**about today**

**;;**

_tonight you just close your eyes_  
_and I just watch you_  
_slip away_

_how close am I to losing you?_

**;;**

1. love in all it's varying forms

Maybe love isn't the right word.

She wouldn't call it love when Wan staggers up to her after the show, the scent of marijuana and cheap booze hanging in the air as he throws his entire body against hers.

"Raava!" he cries into her shoulder. His dead weight clings to her like lead. "Oh Raava, my love, my darling, my other half…"

She sighs, her arms slipping under his for support. "What is the purpose of this, Wan?" she asks monotonously.

"I just…" Wan hiccups, pressing his cheek further into Raava's collar bone as he begins to slide down her body. "You're the best, Raava."

"Yes, Wan. I know."

(This isn't the first time.)

"You do?"

Raava staggers back slightly, dragging the boy's useless form with her. Her back is stooped at an awkward angle and Wan's knees skim the cold concrete.

"I do."

"Thanks, Raava."

"Of course, Wan," she states, struggling to pull Wan to his feet. "Now please. Get up."

"Mkay."

She wouldn't call it love when she's got her wasted band mate, slash not-really-friend, slash sort-of-fuck-buddy draped over her as she attempts to lead him out of the club and into her car, where he will no doubt try to kiss her and she won't refuse, and then she'll be stuck asking herself _well, what would she call it then._

"Raava."

"Yes, Wan?"

His head lolls onto her shoulder once more and she feels his fingers press reassuringly into her arm. "Thank you."

"Of course, Wan," she repeats, and means it.

* * *

2. the soothing comfort of your own home

Until he was fourteen, the concept of _home _was a foreign one.

Home was an illusion. It was the thing the social workers and foster parents waxed poetic about—all _welcome to your new_ _home _when he and Jaya were handed over to a pair of strangers with false smiles and tired eyes, and _we'll find you a new home, don't worry, that just wasn't the right one _when they were sent back to square one.

By the time Wan was seven, he'd stopped believing in the existence of a home.

He was thirteen when Yao showed up.

Yao, the eccentric long-lost uncle or godfather or third cousin twice-removed (Wan was never quite sure, all he knew was that the man was the first person to ever really give a shit, and that was all that mattered) came in out of nowhere and took the boys with him.

It took Wan a year to adapt. Sure, he liked Yao—liked him more than any other so-called _parent _he'd had in the last thirteen years. But he could never shake his fear of getting too comfortable. If he'd learned anything from his life, it was that the moment he let himself accept a "new life" as the social workers said, it would be ripped away.

But this time, it was different.

A year went by, and nothing had changed. Then two years, then four years, and then he's seventeen and still living with the same people, and _home _doesn't seem so foreign anymore.

So when he's sitting in a circle on the floor of his room with his head in Raava's lap, Jaya rolling blunts across from them, and his cat between them, Yao passed out downstairs, Wan gets it.

(It's comfortable.)

* * *

3. hilarious first time meetings

The first time Yao meets Raava, Wan is fairly certain he's going to die.

No sooner have the two crossed the threshold of the house when Yao toddles across the living room with a reedy cry of "Is this your girlfriend, Wan?"

Wan laughs nervously, avoiding the seething glare currently burning into his soul. "She's…she's not my girlfriend," he mutters quickly.

"Miss Raava, it is a pleasure to meet you," Yao exclaims, thoroughly ignoring the uncomfortable stares of both adolescents. "Wan talks about you all the time."

Raava arches an eyebrow, looking at Wan with amusement.

"I _don't_ talk about you _all _the time," he mumbles defensively.

Ignoring his protests, Raava extends her right hand and smiles politely. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir—!"

Her words halt immediately when the man stops shaking her hand emphatically to pull her into an unexpected hug. She stands frozen in his skinny-armed embrace until Wan blessedly pulls her away.

"We really should be going upstairs," Wan explains, tugging Raava's arm toward the staircase. "We have a lot of things to work on."

"_Oh_," Yao says, his voice heavy with implication. "Things."

Wan blanches, his cheeks going scarlet. "Not those kind of things!"

"Uh huh, you kids have fun," calls Yao as Wan practically drags Raava up the stairs.

"Not those kinds of things!" Wan yells again, peeking back over the banister. "_Band things!"_

When they reach his room, Wan collapses wearily on the bed, one hand covering his blazing cheeks. "I'm sorry about him."

"He's…" Raava pauses, searching for the word. "Charming."

Wan gives a mortified laugh. He hears the click of the door closing before the mattress shifts beneath him. Next thing he knows, there's a weight on his stomach and a set of fingers encircling his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face.

"_Things_?" Wan squeaks unintentionally, his blush back in full swing.

Raava smiles, her long hair falling past her shoulders and onto his neck as she leans in. She presses her nose against his and smirks. "Things."

* * *

4. spring melted away her sorrow like the last bits of snow

Wan holds the pencil between his teeth, ties his hair back, and says, "I'm working on a new song."

"Oh," Raava replies, not bothering to look up from the book in her lap.

"I only have one line, but," he pauses, grinning crookedly as he strums a chord on the guitar. "I think it's going to be our best."

"Of course it is, Wan." Raava turns a page and leans deeper into Wan's pillows.

Oblivious to Raava's disinterest, Wan prattles on excitedly. He strums another chord. "_Spring melted away her sorrow like the last bits of snow…_" he croons (albeit a bit off key, but Raava decides she'll chalk that up to the pot they've been smoking for the last hour). "That's all I have so far, but it's got potential. What do you think?"

Raava hums in response.

"Raava are you listening?" Wan asks, twisting around to peek over the edge of the mattress.

"Of course," she says unconvincingly. "Of course I am." When she finally looks up, she's met with his signature pout.

Raava sighs and lays her book facedown on the comforter. "Wan," she says, pulling herself forward on her hands and knees. "Dearest…" She grimaces; pet names have never been her forte. She stops at the foot of the bed and curls her fingers around Wan's shoulders, dragging her nails over his collarbones so that he arches into her touch.

"We've been over this," Raava mutters. Her lips brush against his ear. Wan groans, his head knocking back against the mattress.

"Yeah?" he breathes, his eyes sliding shut.

Raava hesitates. Surely, she can find a way to tell him gently. "You're…" she licks her lips; the tip of her tongue darts against Wan's jaw and he lets out a soft growl. She finishes in a gravelly whisper, "you're shit at writing songs."

* * *

5. animals/nature

"Wan," Raava starts, settling back into her spot on the worn carpet and pulling her long hair over one shoulder. "What's wrong with Mula?"

Wan arches an eyebrow. His bloodshot eyes slowly drag down to the pile of tan and white fur in between them. "She looks fine to me."

He takes another drag from their shared joint and ruffles Mula's fur. "See?" Wan says with a smoky cough and half-smile that he seems to think explains everything.

The maine coone gives him a sluggish blink. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused.

"Wan, you moron," Raava groans, snatching the joint from between Wan's lips. "Your cat is fucking stoned."

* * *

6. "you've changed, and I don't like it"

"You've changed, Raava."

Raava stops typing and glances up in annoyance. "We've all changed," she says, her voice curt. Frankly, Vaatu is the last person she wants to see hanging over her secluded carrel in the library.

"Don't be so defensive, Raava," he condescends, leaning closer. "It's not very becoming on you."

"If you're trying to tell me something," she replies, twirling her chair around to face him with the toe of one combat boot. "Please get on with it. I have a paper to write."

Vaatu laughs, flashing his too-perfect smile. The sound is eerily cold. "I'm merely pointing out the fact that _you've _changed."

She raises her eyebrows, leaning back in her seat. "And?"

"And I don't like it."

"Well," she grates through a steal-trap smile. If there's any person who can enrage her more than Wan (and that is a feat in itself, considering she wants to strangle him the majority of the time), it's Vaatu. "It's a good thing I don't care."

* * *

7. an unusual day

"You want to do _what_?" Raava hisses in disbelief. Truly, she

must be hallucinating—a bad trip, something lingering from the cannabis binge from the previous night. She swats a strand of white hair away from her eyes and vows to cut back.

Wan shrugs, widening his eyes exaggeratedly to match Raava's deer-in-the-headlights stare. "It sounds like fun."

"_How _does it sound like fun?" Raava pinches the bridge of her nose. "Jaya, tell me you don't want to come too."

Jaya looks up from his bowl of noodles. He glances nervously from Raava to Wan. "I'm—uh—I'm with Wan on this."

"See, Jaya thinks so too!" Wan cheers, gleefully snatching up his own bowl and eating voraciously.

"Don't drag me into this anymore, Wan," Jaya mutters, sliding lower in his seat.

Raava exhales through her nose loudly, narrowing her eyes. "I think you're missing something here."

Wan leans in, his eyebrows raised. "How so?"

Laying her palms flat on the table, Raava sighs, "Because you want to go to my piano recital."

"I don't see the problem here, Raava," Wan says, theatrically throwing his hands up in defense. "Back me up, Jaya."

"I'd—," he pauses on account of the blue-eyed death glare aimed his way. "I'd rather not."

Raava rubs her temple in exasperation.

She should've known it would be an unusual day the moment Wan sidled up to her, too bright eyed and cheerful considering the previous night's shenanigans, and proclaimed that he had _exciting plans for tonight, Raava, you'll love it._

Hindsight is, as they say, twenty-twenty.

"Come on, Raava," Wan says. "There's nothing I'd like to see more than you up on stage all by yourself."

Raava's face scrunches up in an external display of magnificent self-restraint. "Fine," she moans, one fist coming down on the table. "Fine, you can come."

Wan grins, looking entirely too thrilled with himself. "Thank you, Raava," he drawls, cocking his head in an attempt to be charming.

Raava grits her teeth to keep from smiling back. She's fairly certain she'll regret this.

* * *

8. a beautiful traditional ceremony of some sort

Just as promised, Wan and Jaya come waltzing into the auditorium barely five minutes before Raava is called to the stage. Raava spots them almost immediately from across the room. They look out of out place amid the overly formal crowd, despite the fact that they're dressed up as well.

Raava stands, smoothes her dress, and strides toward the pair. The black fabric swishes around her legs, drawing Wan's rapt attention. The dress is cut high around her neck and Wan can see slivers of the electric blue tattoos on her collar bones peeking out.

"Hey, Raava, you look—," Wan starts. He is effectively cut off by Raava pulling him into what seems to be a casual hug.

She presses her cheek to his and mumbles a threatening "do not fuck this up or I will kill you".

This recital is a tradition, practically ceremonial, she'd explained to them. It's imperative that everything is perfect, and Wan has no doubt that she'll uphold her promise if anything goes wrong.

Raava pulls away, locking eyes with Wan for a split second. "Are we clear?"

Wan gives her a loose smile. "Of course, Raava. You'll do great."

(He was going to say that she looked beautiful.)

Several moments later, the lights dim and Raava emerges on stage. She walks calmly through the stage lights before taking her place at the piano.

There is a pause where she pushes back the cover, her neck stooping gracefully as she aligns her fingers on the keys. Her eyes drift closed and she begins to play.

The rich sound of it fills the air, echoing off of the high arched ceilings and sending chills down Wan's spine. He's heard her play hundreds of times before, but never like this. It's a melancholy sound that makes his heart catch in his throat.

Raava plays with her eyes closed. Her brows furrow with the magnitude of it all, her shoulders rolling with the power of each chord.

Wan thinks that if she ever touched another person the way she touches the keys, they would surely break.

* * *

9. the final goodbye

They've said goodbye before.

Granted, they were twelve, they sort of hated each other, and they ended up meeting again five years later, so Raava thinks maybe it doesn't count as a goodbye in the long run.

(And she's really kind of glad that it doesn't.)

Raava shifts her weight from one foot to the other, thinking maybe high heeled boots were not the best choice of footwear for the night. Then again, she hadn't planned to be here anyway.

But Wan was insistent, all puppy-dog eyes and bright smiles and _it would be so much better if you were there_. She'd rolled her eyes and given him a fleeting maybe, but at the end of the day, she's leaning against a wall in the back of the coffee shop, sipping a chai latte and regretting her shoes.

A few people have gathered around the base of the platform, mostly giggling freshmen girls. Raava prefers to keep her distance.

She's still looking down at her phone when the café quiets. She looks up just as Wan takes his seat on the stool, acoustic guitar in hand, and positions the microphone at his lips.

"Hey, everyone," he says charismatically, hazel eyes sweeping over his small crowd. "Thanks for coming."

His eyes meet Raava's for a moment, and a smile splits across his lips. Raava's heart lurches unexpectedly and she can't help but smile back as he begins to play.

His fingers move deftly over the frets and strings, plucking each chord with an expert grace. Vaguely, Raava recognizes the song as something she's heard before, probably looping on one of the playlists he likes to listen to while they're sprawled out on his bed, staring at the ceilings and wondering who will make the first move this time.

Wan's voice resonates through the speakers. Raava presses her lips together and tries not to feel.

Because whatever this is, it is not supposed to be about feelings. Then Wan catches her eye again, and her resolve slips away.

Love may be the wrong word, but she's not sure she could ever find the right one, and all she knows is that she's said goodbye to him once before and she doesn't think she could do it again, now.

(For the record, she's glad it wasn't the final goodbye.)

Wan stops playing; the sound of clapping shakes Raava from her thoughts, and Wan smiles at her again as he sets his guitar in the stand.

The moment he steps off of the platform, Raava strides forward and kisses him with vindication.

* * *

10. the last drop of coffee

They stay until there's no one left, holed up in a corner booth. Neither of them speaks.

"Look," Raava says finally, bringing her mug down on the table with a clunk. "I think I may like you."

"I know." Wan grins. "I like you too."

And Raava can't help the smile that plays on the corners of her lips. They fall into silence again, and neither of them seems to mind. Several moments go by, and then—

"So are you going to fuck me tonight, or what?"

Wan chokes, his eyes shooting up to meet hers. Raava is smiling loosely as she slides out of the booth and holds out a hand.

He looks to her outstretched palm and laughs, unable to hide the enormous smile that spreads across his face. "Of course."

Wan swallows, leaving his mug on the table, and takes Raava's hand.

The last drops of coffee are cold.


End file.
